


As Butterflies Fall

by Alpherae



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark, Gen, Genocide, In my defence it's Hallowe'en, Infanticide, Not Gory (I think), Suicide, Very Early First Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpherae/pseuds/Alpherae
Summary: Extract fromDragon Language: Myth no Moreby Hela Thrice-VersedWhich in Tamrielic translates into this:"This stone commemorates the doomed elf children of the Autumn Field, who fled in Terror from the sharp swords of the ancient enemy."This wall seems to commemorate some ancient, long-forgotten event in Tamrielic history. Whether that event occurred on or near the place where the wall was erected, we will probably never know.





	As Butterflies Fall

**Author's Note:**

> *Pokes fic thoughtfully* This is actually more like one of the Missed Meetings than I realised. Um, sorry?
> 
> I promise the next one will be fluffier. Also very soon. *knocks on wood*

The mud took them by surprise. The last three days had been wet and cold, the unpleasant end to a damp month, and the many streams that tumbled down from the hills into Lake Honnith were swollen with rain. One such stream had taken too much, and shifted its path to spill out across a once safe route.

The young ones stumbled into the morass before any of them realised what had happened, too panicked by the threat of Atmoran swords behind them to stop. Jadis cursed under her breath and urged them on, lifting Imwe onto her hip. The other adults had dropped behind one by one to delay pursuit, and she was the last, poor defence the remaining children had.

Three weeks of the chase had drained her to the dregs, running on little food and less sleep. A knife slash two days ago - poisoned or cursed - had taken her magicka with it, and she'd torn her own voice almost to shreds to keep them free this morning. At this point, she'd almost welcome a dragon if it could cover their trail.

She boosted Imwe up a little and turned to catch Mendil's arm, guiding the child through the clinging mud. A shriek of pain pierced the air and froze her blood, coming as it did from the path ahead. Jadis snapped her head up to see Atmorans moving out from under the autumn-touched trees on the far side of the clearing, spreading out to block their escape. Most of the children scrambled back to her as fast as they could but young Gelin remained, sobbing in the mud as the man who'd crippled him walked past without a second glance.

Behind her, the hunters were already visible through the trees, moving too fast for them to break free of this trap. Jadis shifted Imwe into the crook of one arm and looked around, counting. Just under two dozen men to chase down six - now five - children and one exhausted woman, though it wouldn't surprise her if they'd figured out who she was by now. She'd killed enough of them.

Faire shifted beside her and grasped her free hand tightly.

“I don't want it to hurt, auntie,” she said quietly. Jadis looked down at the girl, barely nine years old, seeing dread mingled with a terrible understanding in her face. Celebor and Mirtil were clinging to her skirt to stay upright, whilst Mendil had given up on dignity and crouched between her feet. They were too tired to start running again, even with somewhere to run to.

“It won't,” Jadis breathed, _Auri-El be kind_ , and let her shoulders sag, her head drop in apparent despair. The men surrounding them edged closer, mincing cautiously through the mud. The stocky redhead in front of her held his sword like a shield, uncertain whether he should be fearful or delighted with his catch. She let him approach, twisting up all the scraps and tatters of power that remained to her - the fire in her lungs, the ice in her veins - waiting until the point was a handsbreadth from her breastplate before she looked up.

“ **Dir** ,” she said.

_Die_.

And they did.

 

* * *

 

Any soldier with the least bit of experience knew the stench of a battlefield, the foul mix left behind by violent death. Skorm frowned, almost disoriented by its lack even as his men carried body after body past him to Shor's priests. He looked around, finally spotting a priestess of Kyne bent over one of the few survivors.

She looked up as he approached, thin-lipped, and settled back on her heels.

“Captain,” she said with a brisk nod. “I hope you're not expecting much sense from this one.”

Skorm crouched down beside her and caught the man's chin, peering into his eyes. The man looked back blankly, neither resisting nor reacting. Skorm gave the priestess a sidelong look and she snorted, jerking her head over her shoulder.

“Mjorn was going deaf before all this,” she said as she led him further into the clearing. “The other, Velbet, was almost out of earshot. They'll likely starve unless we get a master of the Voice to give them other orders.”

They stopped beside a tumble of small bodies, worn tunics smeared with mud. The priestess nudged a silver head with her foot.

“That one,” she said, standing by as Skorm dragged the armoured corpse out from under the pile. In life, the elf-woman would have been tall enough to look him in the eye, strong boned but gaunt with hunger. In death, she was merely heavy. There was no warpaint, nor even the stained skin that came with repeated use, but a line of thin rings marched down the outer edge of her pointed ear, the lowest supporting a tiny bead.

Skorm stared at the body. “You're saying she used the Voice to kill my men,” he growled. “You're saying that's the White Witch, the Storm Thief herself.”

“I'm saying she killed _everyone_  in range, including herself,” the priestess clarified. “What do you plan to do with the bodies?”

“Hadn't planned to do anything with them,” Skorm replied. “Leave them for the wolves.”

The priestess wrinkled her nose. “No.”

“No?”

“Too much risk of draugr,” she said reluctantly. “We can do something about the brats, but the witch is going to rise no matter what.”

Skorm cursed under his breath and rubbed his eyes. He was starting to think the Storm Thief was more trouble dead than alive. “Any suggestions? _I_ don't know what elves do with their dead.”

“Easy enough: burn the bodies, and put up a memory stone somewhere to be safe,” she said, tilting her head to consider the pile. For an instant, Skorm saw his own children sleeping by the fireplace, sprawled over each other like puppies. The vision evaporated as the priestess went on. “Give the witch to Shor's Chosen. They can bind her somewhere out of the way, maybe get some use out of her.”

“Right,” the captain bit out and turned on his heel, leaving the body where it lay. He had orders to give, and no more time to waste on dead elves.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have a Snow Elf semi-OC who can use the Thu'um. No, she is not a Dragonborn. It Makes Sense In Context, so there.
> 
> Feel free to consider this the Butterfly Effect trigger leading to the (not so) minor differences between my world and canon. I do.


End file.
